Wanderers From Dol Amroth
by Cubeleg
Summary: At Helm’s Deep a young guard, Déor, hurries to his dieing father’s bedside. Further north in Rohan a girl sees a wounded rider coming toward her village. Amid this turmoil looms the question. What happened to Prince Imrahil’s daughters?
1. Chapter I Attack on the Isen

**Disclaimer: It is obvious that J.R.R.Tolkien, not I, wrote The Lord Of The Rings. I did not create the geography of Middle Earth or the events that took place in that world. I merely inserted my own characters into that "time period."**

Wanderers From Dol Amroth

I

_Attack on the Isen_

Déor stood on the dike before Helm's Deep, looking out across the plain. He squinted at the setting sun and shaded his eyes with his hand. He saw a rider loping toward him.

The rider began shouting even before he was within hearing. Déor could see the banner the man carried. A white horse running on a green field. He was a messenger of Rohan.

Déor heard feet running toward him and he turned. Sigebryht, a tall young man came leaping toward him. "Come quickly," he panted, stopping next to Déor. "Your father is worse. I will take your place."

Déor froze, the messenger forgotten. His father had been sick all winter. Now he feared Anglen would not last till spring. A horrible cough racked his body.

"The Fords of the Isen have been attacked!" he heard the messenger shout near him.

"_Attacked?"_ Déor wondered. _"Who?"_ But already the questions were fading as he ran down the slope. The messenger cantered through the breach in the dike and passed him. Soon he was left alone, running in the dike's shadow.

He reached his own horse and followed the messenger to the gate. Sweat stood out on his face from the run, but now he shivered as he stood at the top of the causeway, waiting for the gate to open.

The gate swung open and he darted past the guards. They let him pass; they knew about his father.

Déor wound through the outer courtyards, then into the tower. He burst in through a wooden door, looking quickly to his father. The old man lay panting with his mouth open. Déor strode to him and touched his forehead. It was hot.

The man murmured then waved his hands. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. He was delirious.

Déor sat down near him. He would wait. Perhaps he would become conscious later in the night.

Elfhild halted her mare and sat, watching her older brothers strain against each other. Their golden hair flashed in the sunlight and sweat trickled down their faces. She shook her head. Those two were always wrestling, or racing, or competing somehow. They turned everything into a game.

Now the older, Helm, twisted and sent the other to the ground. Den rolled over and the tussle continued. Their horses grazed close-by, unconcerned by their master's antics.

"_You would never think those two were men,"_ Elfhild thought, _"the way they wrestle."_ It had started with a simple question of who was hungrier. Den claimed he had eaten more stew the night before. It was too good an excuse to miss, and Helm had leaped at him. Now the two rolled over and over on the ground. But Den was already grinning.

"Helm! Den! When will you learn to act like men instead of boys?" Elfhild shouted at them.

Helm wrenched away and leaped to his feet. Den rose as well, watching his brother warily. Leaves and grass clung to their hair. Elfhild couldn't help laughing.

Her younger brother, sitting behind her grinned, "Helm beat you again!" he shouted.

"Ah, but who beats you?" Den asked, stepping toward him.

"Elfhild, go!" Dwyn shrieked, kicking the mare with his feet. Elfhild pulled on the reins and held the mare where she was.

They both turned as they heard hooves pounding behind them. Another girl with a boy perched behind her cantered toward them.

"It's Wyn!" Elfhild shouted. She loosened the reins and her mare leaped forward. Soon they were flying along at a gallop. Dwyn shrieked and clung harder to Elfhild as their mare shied in mid-canter.

Elfhild clung to the horse's mane and flung herself in the opposite direction. "Dwyn! Cling with your legs or you'll pull me off! We're not using a saddle."

"But I was falling, Elfhild."

"And you nearly took me with you!" Elfhild shot back. Her chestnut red hair mirrored her frame of mind as she twisted to glare at him.

He grinned, "But you're such a wonderful rider, it doesn't matter," his light blue eyes snapped back at her from under his shock of blond hair.

"What happened?" Wyn, Elfhild's younger sister asked, cantering up to her.

"My lovely red-gold little Erohin decided to shy away from a hole in the ground and nearly threw me," Elfhild replied.

"Well, you didn't fall, let's keep going. I want visit that spot on the Isen before we have to go home."

"We're going to beat you!" Dwyn shouted as Elfhild kissed her mare into a canter.

"Come on Wyn, faster!" his younger brother cried.

The two horses stretched out over the fields, racing after their shadows toward the river.

Wyn was slowly edging up to Elfhild when they heard a shout. Elfhild slowed her mare and looked southward.

She saw a lone rider creeping toward them. He sagged wearily and his right arm was cradled in a sling. His left hand held the reins.

The sisters paused for a moment. "It cannot be a Dunlander, for they have no horses," Elfhild said slowly. The Dunlanders lived across the river. They were now at war with Elfhild's people, the horse people of Rohan.

"He looks like Halaf," Wyn murmured.

The two kicked their mounts into a canter in a moment. The boys clung to their sisters as the canter pressed toward a gallop.

"_Halaf? Halaf? He was with Erkenbrand, guarding the Fords of the Isen, why has he come back?" _Elfhild wondered. She feared to know.

The rider lifted his head as they neared him. Then he stopped his horse.

"Halaf!" Elfhild exclaimed, "What happened?"

"We were attacked yesterday at the Fords of the Isen," he spoke thickly. "We managed to beat back the raiders, but Theodred was wounded and many were killed. Men bear Theodred back to the king now. They chose me to bring the message," he looked at him arm, "for I can no longer fight."

"How many Dunlanders did you kill?" Dwyn asked, peering around his sister's back.

"Many," Halaf said grimly. "Come, we must tell the village." Halaf tried to urge his horse into a trot, but he nearly lurched out of his saddle at the first beat. The horse stopped.

"Come along slowly," Elfhild said, "I'll tell the village you are coming." She whirled her mare and darted across the plain.

"I want to come too," Wyn said.

"Go, go!" her brother urged.

"No, we should stay with Halaf." Wyn looked at him with concern. So many died of their wounds.

Elfhild topped the slope between the river and the village but didn't pause. The sun shone in her eyes and she struggled to see the ground in front of her. A flurry of hooves drummed into her ears as she galloped straight through a herd of horses. Before she even realized a horse was following her, arms wrapped around her and yanked her off her horse. "HELM!" Elfhild shrieked as her older brother pulled his horse to a halt. He held her, struggling fiercely for a moment before dropping her to the ground.

Dwyn had released his hold an instant before Helm grabbed her and now cantered back toward them, almost falling off the horse with laughter. "We've planned that for so long!" he shouted.

"You!" Elfhild shrieked.

"Little bloody hair doesn't like a joke," Helm teased, referring to her reddish hair. "Someone wiped their sword in your hair, and you've never washed it out, that's why you get so mad," he grinned.

"You! You..." she sputtered.

"Yes?" Helm asked, "at a loss for words?" He squinted in the sunlight.

"Well it certainly looks like the sun wiped his sword in your hair now! Just look at that red sheen!" Elfhild retorted

Dwyn began laughing again. "She's right!" he shouted.

"Don't crow too loudly," Helm retorted, "your hair looks red too."

Swords and blood, Elfhild thought. "There was a battle at the ford yesterday," she said. "Halaf is coming, bringing news. Theodred was dreadfully wounded."

Helm stared at her for a moment. "He's not dead," he said, grasping at hope.

"No," Elfhild said, but her face told the rest.

Helm asked about Halaf, then cantered off to meet him. Elfhild leapt back onto her horse and started for the village.

They were situated near the Isen to the north of the fords. Isenguard lay twenty leagues to the north, a tower of defense in time of danger. For long had their village been safe. It had originally been a place of shelter for those watching the horse herds, but it had grown into a village. Close to a dozen buildings huddled around the well at the center and half a dozen families inhabited these houses.

A small girl stood in the road, watching. Elfhild saw her and stopped her horse. Mechanically she reached down and pulled the girl up to sit in front of her. The girl grinned with pleasure, but Elfhild scarcely noticed. She trotted the last few yards to the village.

"Halaf has returned!" she shouted. "He comes from the Fords with news!"

Halaf's mother was the first to run outside, but the others were close behind.

"Halaf is wounded, Helm and Wyn are with him," Elfhild responded to the inquiries. "He said there was an attack yesterday. He was wounded, so they chose him to bear us the news. He said that Theodred was badly wounded."

The people gasped.

"How badly?" a man standing near her horse's head spoke up. His golden hair was touched with gray, but he spoke firmly, as one used to command.

"I do not know, Father," Elfhild answered.

"If he dies, Eomer will be next in line," her father said. The crowd began murmuring.

"What of the other men?" someone asked. "How many were wounded?"

"I don't know, wait till Halaf arrives, he can tell more," Elfhild answered.

"After he rests," Halaf's mother cried.

The crowd broke into knots, talking excitedly. Dwyn slid off the horse and ran to join a group of boys his age.

The little girl twisted around to look at Elfhild. "Halaf was fighting those bad people, wasn't he?" she asked.

"Yes, Goldhild," Elfhild answered.

"Will they come hurt us now, since they chased away Halaf?"

"No, darling, father wouldn't let them, nor Helm nor Den."

"Oh," Goldhild said. "Can we canter?" she asked suddenly.

Elfhild laughed and kicked her mare into a canter. They swept around the village, passing the groups of boys who were now battling phantom Dunlendings. Then around again. Goldhild kept one hand near the mane but her face shone pleasure.

Soon Elfhild stopped near one of the huts. She lowered Goldhild then slipped off herself. Goldhild ran and threw her arms around her father's legs. He swung her up in arms and she crowed with pleasure. Then she wiggled to get down and ran for her mother. Her mother laughed as Goldhild buried her face in her skirts.

Elfhild picketed her mare in the field, then returned to the village.

Soon they saw Halaf with his escort, riding slowly toward them. The village left their chores and hurried out to meet him, surrounding him several yards from buildings. He told them the same news Elfhild had brought, but in greater detail. Then he said, "Erkenbrand fears a second assault. He needs more men."

"Mounted?" Elfhild's father asked. He was thinking of the number of horses and men in the village. There would scarcely be enough.

"Most men are on foot," Halaf said. He swayed and Helm reached out to support him.

"Let him come in and rest," Halaf's mother cried. She grabbed his bridle and began to lead him toward the village. People broke up, talking more nervously than before.

"If we leave in force, we must send the women and children to the Hornburg." Elfhild heard her father saying.

Helm slipped off his horse and stood near her. "That stallion still wants to leave the herd," he said.

"Or leave with the herd," Elfhild answered.

"Someone needs to watch him."

"Aren't you in charge of the herd today?"

"No, well, yes, but Den is up there."

"Helm!" someone shouted, shouldering his horse through the crowd.

"Not anymore," Elfhild grinned.

"Yes?" Helm asked, swinging back onto his horse.

"Why did you leave?"

"To hear the news, little brother," Helm answered.

"And left me to watch alone?"

"I was just coming back to tell you everything."

Den scowled.

Helm laughed and clapped him on the back. "Come on," he shouted, and trotted back toward the herd.

Elfhild wandered around the crowd, listening to the men discuss what to do. If the men left, she knew the village would be easy prey for any band of Dunlendings. Yet if half the men remained, they would be too few to defend much, and the village was no fortress.

If any group of men left, she knew her father would lead them. Her heart grew cold at the thought. Already Halaf lay in his mother's house, burning with fever. She had heard stories about her ancestors and their great deeds. But so many died of their wounds. The village would forever remember Halaf's deeds, how he dealt out death in return for his wound. Perhaps death and renown won in defense of country was better than death in ignominy as a horse herder. Elfhild didn't know. She could only think of what her grief would be if her father died.

"They say they will send us to the Hornburg." Elfhild turned to see Frea at her side. Frea's father was already with Erkenbrand, while her brother rode with the Rohirrim. When her mother had died years ago, her father had brought her to live with her mother's sister, Goldwyn. She had grown up as a sister with her cousins. Ever quieter, but a skillful rider, now she reckoned on her fingers the number of horses and the number of people in the village. "The men need the horses. We will have maybe four to help carry the burdens." She sighed.

The sun dropped beneath the horizon and the horse watch changed. Helm and Den rode in to join the men. Elfhild helped the women bring out food for the men as they gathered around a fire. Then Elfhild went back to the house. The men were still debating. Near midnight she was woken by a great shout. A few minutes later her father and brothers entered the house.

Elfhild rolled over, bumping her sister. Wyn groaned.

"What have they decided?" Goldwyn asked her husband.

"Tomorrow we will make ready. We must pack everything. The men will ride to join Erkenbrand and you must go to Helm's Deep. There will be few horses left. You must pack as little as you can."

Elfhild shivered in the darkness.


	2. Chapter II Refugees

**No, I did not invent the Lord of the Rings. Tolkien did that. I only inserted my own characters into his trilogy.**

II

_Refugees _

Déor laid another log on the fire and turned back to his father. The old man lay on a pile of skins, breathing lightly, his eyes closed. Another fit of coughing wrenched his body almost double. Déor could hear the wheezing in his chest as he leaned closer.

"Father?" he laid his hand on the man's chest. It was still broad, but painfully thin.

The man opened his eyes.

"You wanted to tell me something?" Déor asked.

"Yes," the man wheezed, "before...I die."

"You need not die," Déor said, "you are younger than king Theoden, and stronger." His brow furrowed with concern.

His father shook his head. "No," he lifted his hand against his son's protests. "I am dying. Let me tell you before I go."

Déor bowed his head.

"You know that you do not come from here," his father winced, "you come from...Dol Amroth."

"But you are from Rohan, from the Westfold," Déor countered. "You have told me this, how you came to Dol Amroth and met my mother and settled there. You were loyal to Prince Imrahil, the ruler of Dol Amroth."

His father nodded. "But you do not know why we came back to Rohan."

Déor smiled. "I was ten years old, I remember some. You fled with two little girls, and took me along. You never said who the girls were. But you came to Helm's Deep and there they disappeared. I have always suspected that you gave them to an old friend, who took them home to raise them as his own."

"Yes," the man sighed, "I did." His eyes closed, then he stirred and made an effort to rouse himself, "You must take them home," he said, his eyes bored into Déor's and his hand gripped his son's hand like a claw. "It is time they rejoined their father." Coughing wracked his body and blood appeared at the corners of his mouth. "When you find them, do not wait a day, but return to Dol Amroth with them immediately," he struggled for breath, "or the land may be under the shadow and they never see their father." He collapsed on the bed, wracked with coughing.

"Father, father," Déor leaned closer, his heart bleeding over his father's suffering. "Father, where might I find these girls?" He grasped his father's hand.

The old man's eyes rolled toward him, "The pouch," he gasped, then another fit of coughing took him. He struggled for one more breath, then lay motionless.

"No!" Déor cried, jumping up. He crouched over his father and grasped his hand, then felt his neck. Already the face was ashy white. "Father!" he gasped. Déor sprang to his feet and strode out of the room. He brushed past Sigebryht in the hall and staggered to the open air. The parapet on the tower pressed against him. The cold air breathed against his face and the stars sparkled icily.

Far below he could make out the dike spanning the valley, providing the first line of defense. Tiny fires flickered on the dike, showing the men who stood on sentry duty. They didn't have enough men to guard the dike, it was over a mile long. He should have been on the dike, but his captain had allowed him to stay with his father.

They had all known that he was going to die, Déor reflected. Only he had refused to believe it. Yet he stayed up with his father that night for some purpose.

He slumped over the parapet, tears squeezing out of his eyes. His mother had died when he was a small child. His father had often talked about her, praising her beauty and love. Anglen worked to keep the memory alive and now Déor could picture her for himself. She was tall and fair, like the other women of Dol Amroth and her laugh was brighter than sunshine. Now he pictured his father, as he had known him when younger. Strong, broad and stern as steel when pushed, yet always tender toward his wife. He saw them together, she running to meet him, laughing as he caught her in his arms. Déor's heart eased at the thought.

His eyes flickered open and he looked down. The Deeping Wall, solid as a cliff and wide enough for four men to walk abreast marched out from the tower across the valley. From his place in the upper tier of the Hornburg, he could see it clearly. Far below a long causeway led down from the huge tower gate.

Déor turned and walked back to the stair. His feet found the steps woodenly and carried him down. Sigebryht was already in the room, spreading a blanket over his father.

Déor stood in the doorway and watched Sigebryht. He had met him as a boy at when they first came to Helm's Deep. After a fierce fight, the two had become friends and had managed to stick together. Now Sigebryht turned and saw him.

"We can bury him in the morning," he said. He laid his hand on Déor's shoulder.

Déor nodded. He looked again at the cloth that covered his father. The firelight played upon the folds, creating shadows that rose and fell. He frowned. Something was struggling in his memory, something important. He saw his father again as he had sat before, grasping his hand. The firelight cast the same shadow on his face as he begged his son to...

"The pouch," he murmured.

Sigebryht looked at him strangely.

"Did you see my father's pouch?" Déor asked.

Sigebryht shook his head, "What pouch?" he asked.

"I must find it," Déor closed his eyes, "he commanded me to find it."

Sigebryht frowned.

Déor stepped toward the blanket, then shuddered.

"I'll search," Sigebryht offered. Déor nodded and turned away. Swiftly, Sigebryht felt in the bedding and between the covers. "Nothing," he said.

Déor leaned against the wall.

"But remember, his things are back in the caves with the other extra supplies. They only brought him inside when he became sick," Sigebryht said.

Déor stepped to the door, but Sigebryht laid his hand on his arm. "No, not now. You need sleep. We'll go in the morning."

Déor shook his head, "It was urgent," he said.

"Come to the hall," Sigebryht urged.

Déor sighed, "I must go the instant the sun rises."

"I'll go with you," Sigebryht agreed.

Sigebryht and Déor walked to the hall and Sigebryht lay down among the rest of the slumbering men. The men covered less than half the floor, a small number indeed compared to the fortress' history.

Déor allowed his legs to buckle and he slid to the floor. He drew his cloak about him and closed his eyes. He felt sure he would not sleep that night.

Something brushed his shoulder and he leaped to his feet. His hand grasped his sword as he peered through sleep laden eyes to see who had startled him.

Sigebryht grinned at him, "It's only me," he said, "what did you think I was, a Dunlander?"

Déor groaned. He had just remembered...his father.

"Come, we've already dug a pit for him. I told the others to let you sleep. We must prepare him now," Sigebryht said.

Déor followed Sigebryht through the hall and into the courtyards till they stepped through a door at the rearmost part of the wall. From there the sides of the valley closed in and rose above them. They followed the narrow valley as it wound further into the mountains. Above them crows cawed and circled the cliffs. Eventually the end of the valley reared straight to the sky. At the base of that cliff was the entrance to the caves.

The men's horses were picketed in the narrows, tied in rows and fed from the huge stores of forage gathered from the surrounding fields. Déor let his eyes rove over the horses even as he quickened his pace toward the caves. A guard at the entrance accompanied them with a torch as they wound their way to the storeroom. They turned a corner of glittering stone, yet Déor scarcely noticed the beauty.

The trio passed through several large caverns with sleeping rolls piled to the side. A few people sat in the caves, but most of them roamed the open space behind the Deeping Wall. They passed several more rooms filled with food supplies, then turned off the main passage and entered a small cavern. Graceful columns sprang from the ground to the ceiling and the torchlight turned them to dazzling colors. But Déor strode past the columns to a niche on one side of the cavern. There he pulled out his father's armor, carefully wrapped in cloth to keep off the damp. He waved the torchbearer closer and pushed the flame near the opening. There was nothing else. He rose and gathered up the bundle.

"It could be wrapped with the armor," Sigebryht said.

"It may be," Déor assented, then the two followed the torchbearer back to the light.

Outside the caves, Déor set the bundle on a stone. Within the cloth he found a coat of chain mail, padded with leather. A steel helm lay with the coat and leather gauntlets. A sword lay wrapped separately. Déor unwrapped it for a moment and looked at the sheath, decorated with gold. A silver swan graced the pommel and fiery blue stones set in gold flowed over the hilt. His drew the sword and gloried in the feel of steel within his hand. Then he looked once more at the bundle. A leather pouch lay beneath the rest.

Carefully, he opened it. The leather groaned as he pried the sides apart. On top lay a small scroll tied with a ribbon and sealed with his father's signet ring.

"To my son Déor," Déor read on the outside of the scroll. He broke the seal and gazed at the familiar scrawl.

_My son,_

_I am getting old and sick, though you wish to deny it. I fear that at the time of my departure I will not have time to tell you all I wish. Therefore, I write this letter and place it with other documents of importance._

_My sword, you must keep. It is a trusty weapon and rich in lore. You have heard the tale often, how Prince Imrahil gave it to me as a symbol of his trust and satisfaction with my skill after the battle with the Haradrim many years ago._

_My signet ring is also yours. I have placed it in the pouch._

_Read all that the pouch contains. It will tell you much. There you will learn what you must do._

_Your father,_

_Anglen_

Déor allowed the scroll to roll up and closed his eyes. Then he replaced the scroll and bundled everything into the blanket.

Sigebryht watched in silence. The two retraced their steps and entered his father's room. Sigebryht brought a basin of water and together they washed his father, then clothed him in his armor.

Déor lay the sword in his father's hand, then knelt and took it back. "You wished for me to keep your sword," he said. Through shear strength of will he held his voice even. "Indeed, I am sorry you were not able to give it to me in life. Now I receive it from you, even in death." He rose and fastened the sword to his waist.

He and Sigebryht fashioned a stretcher with two spears and the blanket. Sigebryht took the front position as they carried their burden out the gate and down the causeway. A group of men waited at the foot of the causeway to accompany them. Sigebryht led the way down the valley, and up the slope on the north side. Tucked behind several rocks was a shallow pit, scraped down to the bedrock. Déor and Sigebryht lay the stretcher beside the pit.

For a time there was silence, then Déor bent and took his father's shoulders. Sigebryht took his feet and together they lowered him into the pit. Déor looked once more into his father's face and marveled at the firm brow. Then he and the men covered the body with dirt.

Men trampled the dirt firm, then climbed up the mountain and slid down to bury the place with rocks. Soon it looked like a miniature landslide had covered the area. The wolves would not find this body.

Déor felt the pouch on his back under his cloak and wondered when he would have time to read the contents. Now he must return to duty. He and Sigebryht strode out to the dike to relieve the men who had taken their shifts.

Anglen may have died, but the defense of the Hornburg must continue.

Déor looked across the plain sternly. His tears had come during the night. They would not come again. Now he glared across the plain, daring any Dunlander to come within sight. No one could expect quarter from him this day.

His watch passed slowly, like many other watches. He strained his eyes, hoping to be the first to see any messenger.

A bird rose screaming from the north. Déor focused on the area, looking for movement. In a few moments he saw several figures creeping along the road.

"Strangers!" he shouted. The figures were too slow to be mounted, they could not be messengers.

Each man bent his gaze toward the road, watching as the figures came closer. Soon they could see a caravan of loaded carts coming toward them. People walked beside the wagons, carrying large bundles. The less fortunate tugged barrows along by hand. In front and at the rear, a few men patrolled as scouts. Boys on foot drove a herd of cows behind the carts.

"Another group of peasants," Déor murmured. Most of the men who went to join Erkenbrand sent their families to Helm's Deep. Now as news about the attack on the Isen spread, more people decided to come to the fortress. Rumor whispered that the first attack was merely a feint to discover their strength. If that was so they might have a siege at Helm's Deep. Every family brought as much as they could, each remembering the years when Wulf, a fierce Dunlander overran their country.

The caravan creaked and lowed it's way toward them and wound through the breach in the dike. Here the stream flowed out along the road that came down from the Hornburg.

The people raised their faces with joy as they came within the dike. They began talking excitedly together and called out to the men who guarded the dike.

"Have you heard if Hama son of Hamlaf has come?" an old woman cried, looking at Déor.

He shook his head. Several others plied him with questions, but he could answer no one. He wished they wouldn't ask. How was he supposed to know the names of all the refugees back at the caves? At least three-fourths of the Westfold had come. Besides, he wasn't assigned to guard the caves.

In their excitement, the boys had begun herding the cows closer to the end of the caravan. A horse at the end of the line flung lifted it's head high as the cows pressed it against the carts ahead. Déor noticed it immediately. The cows were crowding it closer to the edge of the stream bank. The horse appeared young and fit. Even after a day of hauling the cart he looked ready to bolt.

The man driving the cart jumped down and caught the horse's head, trying to ward off the cattle with his other hand. An excited cow suddenly crashed against the cart. In an instant the cart was shoved off the road and falling toward the stream. The horse panicked, trying to charge ahead.

A woman screamed. Suddenly Déor saw the children sitting in the cart.

By now the commotion had attracted the attention of every man on the dike. They saw the disaster and seemed ready to rush to help, yet the distance paralyzed them. There was no one who could reach the cart in time. Already the horse was dragging the man forward as it skittered along the bank.

Then they saw a figure charging down the dike. The man leaped through the stream, bouncing off a few boulders, then thrashing his way through the water and clawing up the opposite bank. He flung himself on the horse's head, helping the man force it down, making the horse stop. The cart tipped perilously toward the stream.

"Don't move," Déor ordered the children.

A woman came running down the bank, her eyes wild. She checked herself next to the cart and stretched out her hands.

"Wait," Déor cried.

He left the horse and leaped back into the stream. Stretching up, he pushed against the cart.

Already the cowherds were running forward. One took the horse's head while the man pulled ropes out of the cart. A few jumped into the stream to help Déor, yet most of their boyish arms could not reach the cart. Déor felt his arms growing weary.

"Get on the other side and balance the cart," he called, several boys scrambled to obey, gingerly touching the edge of the cart and shifting their weight onto the sides.

That helped, but Déor felt his arms growing numb from holding them above his head. The icy water swirling around his legs didn't help.

He heard someone splashing through the water. Then a pair of arms reached up next to his.

"Let your arms rest." It was Sigebryht.

Déor lowered his arms. "Thank you."

Soon the men and boys had attached ropes to the cart and began to pull. The old man led the horse forward, encouraging it to pull slow and steady. The boys leaned on the ropes, keeping the load from turning into the stream. Finally they worked the cart back onto the road.

Déor and Sigebryht watched to make sure they reached the road in safety, then they turned to scrambled back down the bank.

"Oh, wait," the woman cried, rushing after them.

The man also turned. He left the horse and hurried toward them.

"Thank you so much," the woman said. Tears filled her eyes as she glanced toward her children.

"I am glad no worse happened," Déor said.

"How can I ever thank you enough?" the man said, finally reaching them.

Déor noticed that his hair was gray and he walked with a limp. "You are strong, father," he said, admiration in his voice. "That horse was no weakling."

"One who has lived as long as I have has need to be strong," the old man answered. Then he grinned, "That horse has caused me many problems. He was meant to ride, not to draw a cart, yet I had to use him."

Déor smiled, "He will be a great war horse."

"Yes, if he does not kill himself first, or my husband," the woman said.

Déor shifted. The wind chilled his soaked legs while he stood still. "We must go back to our posts," he said.

"Of course," the man said, clasping his hand. "Thank you much."

Déor and Sigebryht had already splashed through the stream when they heard the woman shouting after them.

"What are your names?" she called, running to the edge of the stream. She looked strangely wild with her hair flying everywhere and one hand clutching at her shawl.

"I am Déor, son of Anglen," Déor called back. Sigebryht also answered.

"Thank you, Déor son of Anglen and Sigebryht son of Sigemund," she cried. Then she turned and flew back to her husband.

Déor and Sigebryht ran up the breach and along the top of the dike, making the blood course through their legs. Déor stopped at his post and Sigebryht loped past him.

Déor continued pacing to keep his blood flowing. Some of his tenseness had burned itself in the struggle and he stood tall once more. For a time he forgot the pouch on his back and the nagging desire to read the contents.

When the watch changed Déor went into the keep and wolfed down the hot stew. Then he stretched himself on the floor with the other men to sleep. In the crackle of reeds, he didn't notice the crackling parchment. He merely shifted the pouch to one side, thinking it was his cloak. He was too tired to think.

That day Elfhild's village was filled with commotion. Women fed their clamoring families while they tied bundles and filled baskets. Elfhild wanted to take the children down to the river to be out of the way, but they were warned to stay near the village. She Frea and Wyn took them a few yards away from the activity and tried to start games, but the children kept rushing back to see what was happening and the girls had trouble herding them away each time.

Men polished and sharpened their weapons, others strung their bows and examined their arrows. Elfhild sent Goldwyn back to bring out her bow and arrows. She let the children try to draw it then kept them busy finding straight reeds to shoot. Reeds fresh from the river would have been better, but trying to find unbroken reeds from the houses occupied the children longer.

While Wyn, Frea and several other girls supervised the search, Elfhild examined her bow. It was short, not much more than four feet long, but perfect for firing off horseback. The bow was smooth with use and long rubbing. Age had turned the wood golden, yet the limbs remained straight. The string was twisted from ligament, the strongest tendons from an animal. It was much weaker than her father's war-bow, but she was confident it would pierce leather and flesh. She may not be able to fight an armored enemy, but if a band of Dunlenders attacked, the bow would give her confidence. Elfhild plucked the string lovingly, then she un-strung the bow and slipped it back into its leather case.

Next she looked over her arrows. The shafts were long and fletched with crow feathers. Several weeks ago she had convinced her father to help her make this set of arrows. They were heavier than her hunting arrows, and the points were barbed. Now she was glad she had made the change.

Goldwyn came running up to her. "Look!" she crowed, holding out a bundle of herbs. "Smell good!" she cried.

One of the girls who had been watching the children came around the corner. "You shouldn't have those!" she cried, pouncing on Goldwyn. "Those are for Halaf. Bad girl!" she snatched the herbs out of Goldwyn's hand and smacked her.

Elfhild was on her feet before she knew it. "Don't you dare hit my sister, Wiglaf!" she cried, pushing between her and Goldwyn.

"Don't let her steal herbs from my mother!" the girl shot back angrily. "She deserves to be smacked."

"You have no right to smack her!" Elfhild said, folding Goldwyn into her arms. The little girl was sniffling and red marks stood out on her palm. Elfhild turned away from Wiglaf, "Where did you get the herbs?" she asked.

"Mother gave them to me," Goldwyn sobbed, "she said she didn't need them."

Doubt flickered across Wiglaf's face, then she frowned. "She's just saying that to keep out of trouble." She flung her golden hair back proudly, scowling at Elfhild.

"Let's go find out," Elfhild answered, tight lipped. They worked their way through the bustle towards their house. Elfhild stroked Goldwyn's hair, but inside she glowered at Wiglaf.

Wiglaf was older than she and had always tried to boss her around, which was why Elfhild usually avoided her. True, Wiglaf was good at cooking and riding and usually she was good with children. She doted on her older brother, Halaf. Now he was wounded, Elfhild remembered. Perhaps that explained her quick temper. _But she shouldn't have slapped Goldwyn,_ Elfhild fumed.

Wiglaf asked Elfhild's mother if she had given Goldwyn the herbs. She said yes, looking surprised. Elfhild nodded at her, giving her a look that said, 'I'll tell you later.'

Then they went to Wiglaf's house. Her mother ran back and forth between Halaf and her bundles, trying to still his groaning. Wiglaf asked her if she had seen Goldwyn. She shook her head. Wiglaf wouldn't look at Elfhild.

Elfhild chewed on her lip for a second. "Wiglaf, I'll watch the children if you want to stay and help you mother." She hoped Wiglaf would accept. It looked like her mother could use the help, and maybe she just needed time alone to cool off.

"Yes, I am needed here," Wiglaf said coldly. She refused to turn around.

Elfhild sighed and walked back into the sunlight. She found the other children with Wyn and Frea.

"I was looking all over for you!" Wyn cried, swooping down on Goldwyn, "where did you go?"

Elfhild explained and Wyn instantly smothered Goldwyn in kisses. "It's all right now, you didn't do anything wrong," she said, "just don't leave again, I can't keep track of everyone at once if you keep running off like that."

Goldwyn, forgetting her tears, wiggled to get down, then ran to join the other children racing around on imaginary horses.

By evening all was ready. Wyn and Frea examined their bows and declared them unnecessary weight. They thought the food supplies they had helped their mother pack were much more important. Elfhild hoped they were right. That night they crawled into bed wearily. Each of them wore their extra clothing, just a dress and shawl apiece. Their cloaks lay over them for the night. The rest of the blankets were already packed.

Elfhild tried to sleep, but she was too excited. She could feel Wyn and Frea tossing and knew that they too were concerned about the next day.

Several huts away, Halaf moaned in his fever.

The horses milled uneasily. All things waited.


	3. Chapter III Searching

**Disclaimer: Tolkien created Middle Earth, not I. I take no credit for the geography or political characteristics of this story. I only added my own character.**

_III   
__   
Searching   
_

"No!" Déor shouted, jumping up. He stood still, shaking. It was dark. The reeds crackled under his feet. Around him men sat up.

"What is it?" they asked.

"Nothing," Déor said, lying back down.

"_Déor,"_ the men said to themselves, _"he must have dreamed about his father's death."_ They too lay back down.

Déor waited till the men began snoring again, then he sat up and pulled his knees to his chin. He felt the pouch crackle against his back and remembered what it was. He knew he must read it soon. He had dreamed of his father. Again he had heard his father gasp, "The pouch, the pouch." The urgency in his father's face weighed upon him.

He knew what he must do. He must slip out as soon as the sun rose. The next watch did not start till several hours after dawn. He must find time to read as much of the information as he could.

Déor stood and crept to an archer's slit in the wall. He looked out at the stars, gauging the time. Already the stars were dimming. He rested against the floor beneath the slit, watching the few stars he could see from his position. Soon he could no longer see them for the brightness of the sky. He stood up.

One of the men rolled over. "Where are you going?" Sigebryght's voice asked.

"To read my father's letters," Déor answered.

"So early in the morning?"

"When else would I have time? They are urgent."

Sigebryght sighed and closed his eyes.

Déor crept to the center of the tower and began climbing the stairs. He cradled the pouch in his arms as he wound his way up to the small platform he had gone to the night his father died. If a horn were sounded here the cliffs behind caught the sound and threw it back multiplied so it sounded as if an army resided in the narrows. For some reason Déor felt that a large army would be comforting.

Déor sat down with his back against the tower and pulled his cloak tighter. He looked eastward, waiting for the sun. As the light grew he pulled out a parchment and tried to decipher the letters. But the light was too dim. He set the parchment by and waited.

When he glanced down again he could see a strange flowing script. He pulled it closer, but still he could not read the words. At first he thought the light was too dim, but then he realized the words were strange. He pronounced a few out loud, testing the sound. Suddenly he knew they were some form of elfish. The meaning seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not grasp the full importance.

He opened the pouch, searching to see if any there were any documents he could read. He pulled out a sheaf loosely bound with a leather cord.

Déor recognized the writing as his father's, and saw also that he had written in the Rohirric script. His other letter had been in the common tongue. He wondered why his father had written so. The first sentence told him why.

_I write in my own people's script to guard what I say from foes. It has been many months since I left Dol Amroth, yet I fear constantly that one may have followed me. I realize I must record what has happened for you, my son Déor, yet I must use caution. You know that you were born in Dol Amroth, yet you also know that I am from Rohan. While in Amroth I swore to serve the Prince Imrahil. You have heard how I pleased him in battle against the Harradrim and risked my own life to protect his. That was the reason for the sword I wear._

_When you were ten years old I received an urgent request from Prince Imrahil. A woman came to me with his daughters, and a message. It was written in the Sindarin script, an elvish script that the rulers in Gondor oft use for special business. I could not read that language, but thankfully, the nurse could. She told me it said that Prince Imrahil's life was in danger. He had discovered some plot, but could not yet move against the knaves. He feared for the lives of his daughters and begged me to take them with me to Rohan. He commanded that I tell no one of my venture, for he could not be sure of any of his men. I was to flee at once, taking the nurse and children with me._

_I obeyed immediately. That night we left in secret._

Déor paused, remembering the night. His father had woken him with his hand over his mouth. Wide eyed, he had dressed warmly and followed his father to the stable. There they took four horses and crept to the back of the jousting fields. An old woman with two girls waited for them. His father loaded a pack onto one horse, then told him to mount his own horse. He helped the woman mount and gave her the smaller girl. The older he placed before him. Then he took the packhorse's reins in one hand and led the way through the night.

Déor was glad of the large cloaks they wore. The cloaks themselves were so common in that region that they would not attract attention, and the party traveled only a night.

Déor could still remember how sometimes during their journey the girls had cried and he had tried to comfort them. He remembered coming at last to Erkenbrand's fortress. Helm's Deep had awed him, the tower hidden to high in the mountains. But the caves had excited him most. For several days he remembered seeing the girls, then one day when he emerged from another exploration in the caves, they had disappeared. His father said they had gone to live somewhere else, where they could have a mother to take care of them.

Gradually the girls had faded from his memory. Then the fight with Sigebryght had driven them out of mind. He threw himself into adventures with the other lad and they both became the terror of any boy who dared comment on Déor's first trouble with the language of Rohan, the spark of his original conflict with Sigebryht.

Déor smiled. His mother always spoke the common tongue to him, for it was the language of Dol Amroth. His father often spoke the language of Rohan when they were alone together, yet he had not learned many words till he came to Edoras.

He turned back to the parchment. The last page had been left half blank. Now a new page started with a different kind of ink.

_Until you have read these pages, I have not told you who the girls were. I feared lest the rumor that Prince Imrahil's daughters were at Edoras should reach the ears of those that wish to do him harm. Now I tell you clearly. Those girls are Culurien and Lothiriel, daughters of Prince Imrahil._

_I write again because of certain doubts that have entered my mind. The nurse, Fíriel, left not long ago. It seems that a man wished to marry her. She left suddenly and did not tell me where she went. I wonder why, after we fled so far together._

_I have also puzzled over the orders the nurse gave me. I know little of Sindarin, yet at I read it again and again, I can find no hint of fear about a plot on the king. I know it is the king's script, for I have seen his edicts, signed by himself. Yet the meaning is unclear. If you can, find someone who knows the words and will give you a translation._

_I fear that perhaps the nurse lied to me. Why? I do not know. Perhaps she wished to hurt Imrahil and used me to carry away his daughters._

Here a large blot showed where the pen had broken and smeared ink. A short space down, the writing began again, with a new pen.

_If these fears are true, then the girls must go back to their father immediately. You must allow nothing to stand in your way. My allegiance to Prince Imrahil hangs in the balance._

_Folcwine son of Elfwine took the girls into his house. His wife seemed like a good woman. They had two sons several years older than the girls and a daughter their age. Two of her children had died of fever and so she was willing to take the girls. Folcwine sent word to me about the girls each year, though he disguised it as news about his herd of horses. I know he lives in a village north of the Fords of the Isen._

_My son, you must find Folcwine and take the girls to Prince Imrahil._

Here the writing ended. Déor sighed and rubbed his eyes. The coldness of the stones had seeped into his back. He stood and turned to the sun, letting the warmth soak into his chill body. There was more to read, but Déor had enough. He must find out who Folcwine was and somehow track him down. It was his father's last wish.

Déor descended the steps, the phrases revolving in his head. He ate breakfast with the other men, but he seemed not to hear their conversation. Sigebryht watched him closely, wondering what he had read.

As the men rose to go to their watches, Déor seemed to rouse himself. "Has any heard of Folcwine son of Elfwine?" he asked.

"Yes," several men turned toward him. "I have heard of him," said one. "He is head of a village and owns many horses."

"Do you know where I can find him?" Déor asked, stepping toward the man.

He shook his head slowly. "Nay. I have only heard of him. You know that herdsmen move frequently. He could be anywhere."

Déor sighed. "Does any know where he might live?" None answered.

"Why do you need to know, lad?" an older man asked.

Déor paused. "His name was mentioned in my father's writings," he said.

The men nodded wisely. Déor said no more and followed them out the gate.

Throughout the day he asked everyone about Folcwine son of Elfwine. He even questioned the peasants as they entered. Many had heard of him, but few seemed to know where he lived. A few mentioned something about his being somewhere north of the Fords of the Isen. Even his father's writings had told him that much.

One man told him he had met Folcwine's herds near the mountains east of Wizard Vale, where Isenguard stood. Saruman, the keeper of Isenguard had been Rohan's ally for years beyond count, yet many now believed it was he who incited the wild men and herdsmen of Dunland to attack them. The man shook his head when Déor asked if he knew where Folcwine lived.

Déor continued asking about Folcwine. He considered asking if any could read Sindarin, but thought better of it. That would seem too strange for Rohan.

"Did you find any news?" Sigebryght asked, walking toward Déor.

It grew dark near the end of their watch, and they waited eagerly for the relief to arrive.

Déor shook his head. "I have to find out where Folcwine is soon," he said.

"Why?" Sigebryht asked.

"I can't tell you yet," Déor looked grim.

Sigebryht shrugged.

"All I know is that his village lies to the north of the Fords of Isen."

"Why not ride out and see if you can find it?" Sigebryht suggested. "If nothing else, you'll probably find people who can tell you where he is."

"Will I even get permission?" Déor asked. "I might have gone with Erkenbrand, but my father was sick, so I stayed here. Even if I were with Erkenbrand, I doubt if I could get permission to go looking for a village. Not as things are now."

"You could still ask," Sigebryht said.

Déor smiled. "Perhaps tomorrow," he assented

"Talk to Gamling first," Sigebryht said.

"Of course," Déor smiled, catching sight of the old man riding out with the night watch. When he dismounted he walked with a certain swagger that the young men loved. Many of those men were gone now. Déor and Sigebryht were some of the few young men left to admire him. Erkenbrand had left a strong force to guard the fortress, but most of the men were old, or very young. Even Sigebryght was several years younger than Déor.

He glanced at Déor with his boyish smile. "Who's faster?" he asked, before he broke into a run.

Déor charged after him, stumbling over the ground in the twilight. Sigebryght reached his horse first and tried to lead off Déor's horse as well. But he dropped the picket line as Déor charged toward him. Déor leaped on his horse and pursued him all the way to the gate, then stopped, laughing at his cornered victim. The gate wasn't opened yet. Sigebryht whirled, then joined Déor in laughter. They chuckled together as they waited for the rest of the men to come up before the guard opened the gate.

"It is nice to hear laughter in these days," one of the men said as they reached the gate. "Perhaps you could share the joke."

Déor stopped laughing. The cloak of dread settled upon them like the night. "I don't even remember why we laughed," he said.


	4. Chapter IV The Red Stallion

**Disclaimer: Tolkien created Middle Earth, not I. I take no credit for the geography or political characteristics of this story. I only added my own character.   
**   
_IV _

The Red Stallion

Shortly before dawn one of the herders galloped into Elfhild's village. "The red stallion has run away!" he shouted.

Elfhild leaped out of bed, and pushed her way to the door behind her brothers. Outside she listened as people questioned the rider.

"We heard a disturbance around midnight, horses neighing and running on the northern side of the herd. We galloped over immediately, but when we arrived, all was quiet. We checked the herd, but could see nothing wrong, so we resumed our watch. An hour ago we realized the red stallion was gone. We tried to track him, but it was too dark. Now the others are counting the herd to see if he took any with him." The rider paused.

"That stallion," Helm muttered. "We found him as a colt near a spring in the mountains to the north, no doubt that's where he's gone."

"The spring you showed me last year?" Elfhild asked.

Helm nodded.

The sun had just lifted over the horizon when another rider came up. "He took three mares, one belonged to you," he nodded toward Halaf's mother.

"How will I carry my son!" she shrieked. "He cannot ride," she grabbed her daughter, crying hysterically.

"We will not leave you behind," Elfhild's father said.

"Someone has to get the horses," a man said. "We'll have to form a search party now."

"Yes," the other men agreed. They began discussing how they would ride.

Elfhild's father stood silent, his brow wrinkled. He turned toward the river and closed his eyes, gazing across in his mind. "No," he said.

A man turned to him, "What?"

Elfhild's father raised his voice. "We cannot form a search party. There is no time. As many as possible must ride to the Fords of the Isen. The Dunlendings may attack any time. Halaf said they were massing forces. We cannot wait."

"But if we cannot all ride, and the women will be left with no horses. They might use the yearlings, but we sent them south to protect against the raids."

"Yes, the women have to have those horses." The crowd rumbled.

Elfhild looked at Wyn and Frea. "We can get the horses," she whispered. "I think I know where they are."

"Us?" Frea asked, "Don't you remember the stallion?"

"We can't handle a stallion, at least not the red stallion," Wyn said.

"All we need are the mares. He only took three; we can each lead one home. We can chase him off if he tries anything while we're mounted."

Wyn didn't look convinced.

"It might work," Frea said.

Helm turned to the girls. "Could you find the spring on your own?" he asked Elfhild.

"If I have to," she said.

He looked at her again. He had always seen a slender little girl, but now he saw something else. She was tall, and slender, yet strong. A light of adventure had leapt into her eye when she discussed the possibility. As he looked upon her he realized that she was a grown woman, and a strong women. There was something in her bearing that was missing in his mother. She was strong also, but an air of nobility resided around his little sister. The memory returned from his childhood. Somehow, she and Wyn were different, even from Goldwyn.

"You could," he said, simply.

Elfhild stared at him. "Will you ask father?" she finally said.

Helm pushed his way through the crowd and touched his father's arm. "Elfhild could bring back with horses, with Frea and Wyn," he whispered.

Folcwine frowned. He glanced over at Elfhild, then back at the crowd. Elfhild edged toward him. "Silence!" he called, "I believe my daughter has something to say." The crowd quieted, turning toward him with surprise.

"The men must ride, and you must seek refuge in Helm's Deep," she began. "You must leave today. I and my cousin and sister will find the horses and bring them back. We can follow your trail."

The crowd shifted.

"You would let your daughters ride alone on the errand?" a voice asked.

"Let them!" a woman shouted. "They let the horses escape, now let them bring them back." Elfhild could see now that it was Wiglaf. "They aren't even your daughters, they aren't from this clan, they can go!" Venom dripped from her voice.

Elfhild looked at her in shock. For a moment she thought perhaps Wiglaf had gone crazy, but then she noticed the older men and women eyeing the ground. Their eyes flickered toward Elfhild, then away. One old woman shushed Wiglaf furtively.

Folcwine grew stern, "I have taken them under my roof, they are my daughters. I will care for them as a father should, but in time of danger, all must do their part. They have offered to bring back the mares. Would you refuse them?" He looked at Wiglaf till her eyes turned away, then he looked at the rest of the crowd.

"If they go, I will go with them," Wiglaf snapped. "Otherwise how can I trust them to bring back my stallion?"

"Wiglaf, I know that stallion belonged to your brother, and the mare also," Folcwine replied, "but you know the stallion is dangerous. They will not try to bring him back."

"If she does not bring him back, then she will have robbed me of my horse!" Wiglaf cried, "she must bring him back!"

"I will try to bring him back, Wiglaf, but I cannot guarantee that I will be able to do so," Elfhild responded evenly.

"If you do not, then I will charge you with robbery," Wiglaf snapped.

"Come yourself and catch him," Elfhild challenged.

"I would, but I must carry my brother, since I have no horse. My mother cannot bear him alone."

"Let the men take counsel on this matter," Folcwine interrupted. "The rest of you, get ready to leave." The crowd separated into their houses and the men followed Folcwine a short distance away.

Elfhild stayed in the square, staring at the ground. She frowned. Why did that Wiglaf suddenly seem so protective of that stallion? What possessed her to demand it like that? Why did she always seem so demanding?

"Perhaps now you will learn," Wiglaf brushed past her.

Elfhild whirled. "Learn what?" her voice cracked like a whip across the air. "That you that you hate me? I already knew that," he voice dripped sarcasm.

"Perhaps you will learn that others do not have all you have, that they need their horses, while you can ride." Wiglaf whirled and stalked away.

"Eflhild."

She turned to see her mother looking at her.

"Go apologize to her at once," Goldhild ordered.

"Mother!" Elfhild stared at her.

"Go."

Elfhild turned slowly. She scuffed her feet along the ground, then dragged them in the direction Wiglaf had gone. She followed her around the cottage, then stopped. She leaned against the wall, glaring at the ground.

Then she heard crying.

Startled, she looked up. Wiglaf had run a dozen yards into the prairie and thrown herself on the ground. Now she shook with sobs.

Elfhild walked up to her slowly, her mind in turmoil. "Wiglaf?" she asked.

Wiglaf swung around, "I hate you!" she cried. "Why do you have to follow me?" she jumped up.

"I came to say I was sorry for talking to you that way," Elfhild said. "I know you want the stallion."

"Then why don't you bring him back?" Wiglaf demanded.

"Remember when you tried to catch it that time? He almost killed you. He's too dangerous for me to catch," Elfhild said, struggling to keep the frustration out of her voice. "I know Halaf is sick, but I also know the other women and children will help. Gram is a big boy, but he is too young to join Erkenbran. I am sure he will help."

"You can't understand. That stallion means everything to me, if you don't bring him back, you destroy me." Wiglaf turned away.

"If you would quit being so stubborn," Elfhild snapped.

"Stubborn? You're the one who won't bring back my stallion. The least you could do would be to try and catch him. We need that horse. All we had was Halaf's horse, but another man needed it and took it."

"I'm sorry," Elfhild said.

"Prove it, bring back my stallion."

"I can't. Don't you think I'll be helping you when I bring back the mares? Don't you think it will help everyone? Why don't you stop thinking about just yourself and Halaf, think about others!"

"Halaf is all I have," Wiglaf snarled, then she turned and ran.

"Wiglaf!" Elfhild called, but Wiglaf wouldn't stop. Elfhild moaned. "I come back here to apologize and only accuse her of stubbornness and selfishness and make her run away. Elfhild, why don't you be kind for once?" She walked back to the hut and slumped against the wall.

That's where Wyn found her a few minutes later. "Where have you been?" she asked. "We've been looking all over for you!"

Elfhild heard her words as if in a dream. Dampness had soaked into her skirt and chilled her, just as her anger had cooled with the silence. She had failed with Wiglaf, again.

"The men said you could ride after the horses with Frea and I," Wyn continued. "I hope you remember the place as well as you think, because I haven't a clue where it is."

Elfhild stirred, "They said we could go," she repeated.

"Come on, what are you waiting for, the mountains to fall? We have to get ready." With that, Wyn dashed away.

Elfhild's lips curved. With a sigh she pulled herself up and walked back to the house. Already the spot on her skirt felt less cold.

The men had mounted and gathered near the village, ready to ride. The women hurried about in last minute preparations. Goldhild was helping Wyn find food while Frea took off their horse's bundles and prepared to re-pack them.

Goldhild stuffed a sack into Elfhild's hands as soon as she saw her, then told her to fill it from a certain bundle. In a few moments the frenzied activity was over. The three horses stood with saddle and bridle and food enough for four days. The girls strapped their cloaks to the saddles, and checked their water pouches.

"Come back soon," Goldhild cried as she embraced the girls.

Goldwyn grabbed Elfhild around the waist. "I want to come," she pleaded.

"I'm sorry, you can't come now," Elfhild said, bending down to hug her. She looked at her father, and he smiled down from his war horse.

"Ride well, return soon," he said. Pride welled up in his voice. Then he whirled his horse. "Forth!" he cried. "We go to war." His stallion stepped out and the troop followed. Half the men marched after him on foot while the rest were mounted. Every man old enough to fight went with them. For years they had seen the clouds forming. Now the thunder had crashed and they responded.

Elfhild watched them, and her throat constricted. "For Rohan!" she shouted. The village joined in, hurling back their own thunder.

"For Rohan, for King Theoden!"

Then the troop was gone, over the hill. Those who wished could run to the crest and watch them far down the plain. Some did, young wives, seeing their husband off for the first time, and boys, hungering after adventure. Elfhild stayed behind.

"Are you ready?" Wyn asked.

For answer, Elfhild put her foot in her stirrup and swung onto her mare's back. Goldhild handed up her bow and arrows and she settled them in place. "Goodbye," she called to her family. She twisted around at the edge of the village and raised her hand in farewell. Her mother, sister and brothers waved. Little did she know how she would treasure that memory.

As she turned back to her journey, she noticed a rider trotting toward them. It was Wiglaf. She had been waiting for them behind the houses. Now she stopped just beyond where Elfhild had halted.

"Why did you stop?" Wiglaf asked, "I'm coming with you."

Elfhild wanted to scream, but she clamped her lips shut.

"I thought you needed that mare to carry Halaf," Wyn said. "What will your mother do now?"

Wiglaf's eyes flashed and she looked straight at Elfhild, "The others will help her, as you said."

"Wiglaf," Elfhild struggled to keep her voice low, "they did not give you permission to come with us, you must stay."

"Do I need permission to seek to capture what is my own?" Wiglaf demanded.

"Wiglaf, you cannot come with us," Elfhild said.

"Go back to the village immediately," an old man said. The girls started. They hadn't noticed him walking toward them. "Wiglaf, your mother is looking everywhere for that horse," he scowled at her.

Wiglaf slumped as she turned toward the village, but her lips where clamped in a straight line. She didn't look back once.

"Ride quickly," the man admonished Elfhild. "And when you come back, learn to get along with Wiglaf." Then he turned away.

Elfhild nodded. "We will," she said, then added, "at least we'll try." She shook her reins and the three of them began trotting.

"Here's where they left the herd," Wyn said, pulling her mare to a stop.

Elfhild looked at the trampled grass and hoof marks. She nodded. "We should follow their trail as much as we can. If we loose the trail we must go straight to the spring, but they may travel slowly, and we want to catch them as soon as we can."

"You're right," Frea nodded.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Wyn asked. She grinned and dug her heals into her mare's sides. The gold and black buckskin sprang forward.

Elfhild laughed as she kicked Erohin and cantered after he sister. The trail was easy to follow at this point, the four or five horses had trampled the grass enough that they could follow at a gallop.

Elfhild tossed away all thoughts of Wiglaf and the war and concentrated on riding, on the wind tossing her hair and the blissful feeling of flying.

Soon the girls slowed to a trot. Occasionally they slipped off their horses to check the tracks. It seemed like the horses had never drifted below a trot, and if they had, the stallion had urged them on.

The sun climbed, and the girls kept up their trot. They constantly searched the grasslands ahead of them, yet they caught no sight of the red stallion or his herd.

Around noon they stopped for a short rest and allowed the horses to graze, but less than an hour later they were back on the trail. The mountains loomed ever higher before them. Now the ground became more broken. Though the ground dipped up and down, Elfhild realized they were going mostly uphill.

The sun touched the horizon and still the stallion was somewhere ahead.

Elfhild halted her mare near a sheltering crag. It was the last guardian of a valley that fell down from the mountains. "This looks like a good spot to camp tonight," she said. "The spring is just up there," she motioned up the valley. "We can reach it tomorrow and catch the horses."

For answer, Wyn slid off her mare. Frea did the same. Soon they had taken off the horses' saddles and bridles. Frea took them out on picket ropes while Elfhild started a small fire. Wyn arranged their blankets and got out the food. Then they all searched for firewood. A lone tree grew near the shelter of the outcropping and they gleaned many branches near it.

An hour earlier they had gone down to the Isen to let the horses drink. Now they had only themselves to feed.

"I wonder if we should set a watch," Frea said.

"Why?" Wyn asked, "because of the Dunlanders?"

"Not exactly," Frea said, "but many things roam the plains at night."

"Why wants to first watch?" Elfhild asked.

"I do!" Frea and Wyn said at the same time. They laughed.

"Well I want the last one," Elfhild said, "so which of you is easier to wake up? That one should take the middle watch."

Frea pointed to Wyn. Wyn pointed to herself. "No," Frea laughed, "you're supposed to point to me."

"But I am easier to wake up," Wyn said.

"Really? I've never tried," Frea teased. "I always let Helm or Den take care of it."

Wyn scowled, "You know I get up first in the morning."

Frea just smiled.

"I do to!" Wyn insisted.

"She didn't say you didn't," Elfhild said.

"Well, I'll take the middle watch, if you think you can wake me up," Frea said.

"I'll wake you in an hour," Wyn said.

"Not for four hours if you want to live," Frea retorted, grinning.

"Maybe, if I feel like waiting," Wyn teased.

Frea shook her head and lay down.

Elfhild also lay down and soon fell asleep. It felt like only been a few minutes before she felt someone shaking her. Frea was bending over her.


	5. Chapter V Disaster!

**Disclaimer: Nope, didn't make up Middle Earth. I must attribute that to Mr. Tolkein. I just pasted my story into his frame.**

_V_

_Disaster!_

The next day he talked to Gamling. But it was as he had feared. Gamling would not allow him to leave the fortress.

"Gamling, my father begged me to find Folcwine, I must do it," Déor said earnestly.

"You cannot leave the fortress now," Gamling sighed. "It is not safe."

"I can fight," Déor said quietly.

"It is not safe for us!" Gamling exclaimed. "I know you can fight, I helped train you. But you must stay to help us defend ourselves. The enemy may attack at any moment. If you are searching for this Folcwine, you will be cut off from your retreat. The enemy will outnumber you and kill you."

"Please, Gamling, you know I would not make a foolish request."

"Until now I would have vouched for you on that point. Now you make me doubt," Gamling glared at him. "I know you wish to obey your father," he said, softening, "but did he say you must go while the enemy threaten attack?"

"He urged speed," Déor said.

Gamling sighed. "I wish I could allow you to search for Folcwine. But I cannot. No, you may not leave."

Déor looked Gamling straight in the eye for a moment, then bowed his head in resignation. "Then, I will not leave," he said. He turned to go.

"Déor," Gamling said. "If we ever send scouts in that direction, I will make sure you go with them."

"Thank you," Déor said and stalked away across the dike. He grasped the handle of his sword fiercely. How he hated this inactivity, this simple waiting. He wanted action. He wanted to search.

Gamling nodded to himself as he watched the boy stride off. "He is much like his father," he said, "always wanting adventure." Then he smiled and nodded once more as if agreeing with himself.

"Stand ready!" A sword zinged out of a sheath.

Déor whirled, drawing his own sword.

Sigebryht stood glaring at him, crouched slightly with a shield held ready.

Their morning watch was over. Now they stood on top of the Deeping Wall, relaxing till their evening watch began. At least, they had been relaxing.

Déor leaped to one side as Sigebryht charged him. Four men could stand abreast on the Deeping Wall, yet that didn't leave much room for leaping about. Déor caught up his shield where he had propped it near the wall and flung out his sword to parry another stroke. Sigebryht was going easy on him, giving him a chance to ready the shield.

The men on guard on top of the wall turned to watch the two combatants. Déor and Sigebryht flowed and smashed against each other, each seeking for an opening. Their eyes met, watching for a signal. Déor twisted so Sigebryht's back was to the edge of the wall. He rushed in, trying to force him over the edge. Sigebryht whirled out of the way at the last moment, carrying the fight further along the wall.

Suddenly Déor found himself almost off the edge. With a desperate thrust, he forced Sigebryht away toward the parapet. Sigebryht drew back, laughing. "Your skills have not decreased since last spring, I still cannot beat you."

Déor laughed. "Well I haven't defeated you either," he said.

"You came close," Sigebryht grimaced. "That last blow almost broke my shield arm." He shook his arm for emphasis.

Déor frowned.

"I have done my duty. I have begun to tire you. Now go down to the valley, Gamling is waiting to give you a lesson." Sigebryht motioned down the steps.

Déor's eyebrows shot up. "Did you plan this?"

"Of course, what else would keep you from being so restless?" Sigebryht grinned as he followed Déor to the stair. "Hope you have fun," he called, nursing his arm. Gamling was notorious for giving his pupils a hard time. Déor still remembered many bruises he had received for not guarding himself properly. They helped him learn faster, at least Gamling thought so.

Déor jogged down the stairs, shaking his head at Sigebryht. Yet he had to admit the exercise had already improved his temper. He saw Gamling waiting for him, his sword out and shield held ready. Déor wondered for a moment if he ought to fight carefully. After all, he had grown stronger in the past year, and Gamling was old.

"Come on, are you afraid of an old man?" Gamling shouted, brandishing his sword.

That decided it. Déor leaped down the last few steps and came at Gamling with a rush. Gamling neatly sidestepped his first blow, glancing it aside with his shield as he had a hundred times before.

The two circled each other. Gamling did not strike as hard as Sigebryht, but he used more cunning. Their eyes locked, but still Déor could scarcely read his teacher's glance. He knew his own eyes betrayed his every move to the old man. Still he watched, and sought to learn.

The contest continued, with the two twisting constantly. Finally Déor thought he read Gamling's eyes. As quick as a spark he twisted his sword away and took the next blow on his shield. He had been right. Gamling had almost used his trick again. His teacher could move as quickly as a snake, twisting his sword to catch his opponent's hand guard and wrenching the sword out of his grasp. Déor rememberd many times when he had stood disarmed, pinned againt a wall with a sword at his throat.

They drew back at the same moment. Gamling smiled. "You have learned," he said. "You never avoided that before."

"Yes, I have learned," Déor said, "I have learned you are a shrewd commander as well as a teacher."

Gamling smiled. "A man must be shrewd to be commander or teacher," he said.

"Thank you for the lesson," Déor said.

Gamling nodded, "You are welcome. I trust you know where to come when next you feel restless."

"Careful," Déor said, "I may come to you after every watch."

Gamling laughed, "I have other duties," he said.

"Thank you again," Déor repeated, grasping his commander's hand.

Gamling smiled, returning the pressure. The next moment he turned and walked toward the Hornburg.

Sigebryht slipped up to Déor. "You enjoyed my little surprise, did you not?" he asked.

"I would never admit that. Otherwise you would surprise me all the time," Déor said. He strode up the steps two at a time, then leaned through an arrow slit in the parapet, straining his eyes to the north. Somewhere in that direction lay Culurien and Lothiriel, Prince Imrahil's daughers. He must find them, somehow.

Early the same morning Fréa bent over Elfhild, shaking her awake for her watch.

"Are you awake yet?" she asked.

"Yes," Elfhild groaned and dragged herself into a sitting position. She knew if she didn't she would fall back to sleep.

The cold air struck her limbs, forcing her to pull her cloak tight. Creeping over to the fire she held her hands over the coals. The warmth made her fingers tingle. Carefully she added a few sticks to the coals and blew on them. They began smokeing as she blew harder. Finally they burst into flames. A thrill of pleasure ran along her back as the warmth touched her face. The flames threw light everywhere and she surveyed the camp quickly, glancing at her sister, then further to the horses.

Content, she turned her gaze back to the fire. The flames died, but she did not reach for their dwindling supply of fuel. They had gleaned all they could from the old tree, and it was miles to the next.

A horse whickered. Elfhild decided to walk down and check their picket ropes.

Returning, she sat down near the fire to wait.

She felt alert and suddenly wished she could continue riding. A desire for action grasped her heart. She jumped up and paced around the fire.

The fire seemed to grow dimmer and she added more sticks. Then she noticed she could see the horses better. The stars were fading. She crept around the rocks sheltering their encmapment and looked toward the east. The dawn was coming. She streched her arms to welcome the glowing sky. Opening her mouth to shout with joy, she looked to the south, towards their village. Her mouth stayed open, but no sound emerged. A smudge lay near the horizon. For a moment she thought it was from the cook fires in the vilage. Then a knot wrenched her stomach. It couldn't be.

She ran and shook Fréa and Wyn awake. "Come," she said, leading them away from the shelter. "Can you see anything?" she pointed to the south. Her hand trembled.

Wyn followed her finger, then rubbed her eyes. "It looks like smoke," she said.

"Why would the village be burning?" Elfhild asked. "The men did not say to burn it. I heard them talking about coming back. It can't be on purpose."

The two stared at her. "It couldn't be Dunlanders," Wyn said, "could it?"

"Maybe someone left their fire going and it caught in the thatch," Fréa suggested, but she didn't seem convinced.

"No," Wyn said. "Grandfather sent me to all the houses to make sure the fires were out. I poured water on every hearth."

"Should we continue searching for the horses?" Elfhild asked. Her stomach churned.

"Go back," Wyn said. "If any are still alive, we need to help them." She shuddered.

"But what if they left before the Dunlenders arrived?" Fréa asked. "Then they will need the horses even more."

"The Dunlenders can also track," Elfhild murmured.

Fréa looked at her, and her face froze.

"If there are wounded they will need help soon. We have to go back, now!" Elfhild exclaimed. Her fear gripped her. In a moment the three had rushed back to camp and began packing.

"We can eat later," Elfhild said, bundling the food bag onto her saddle. With a cry they sprang on their horses and surged itno a gallop.

They thundered over the ground and with each beat, Elfhild wished they were already at the village.

But her thoughts rebelled. _We have to slow down,_ they said, _the horses can't do this all day._ Elfhild shook her head, but with a moan she pulled on the reins. Erohin slowed to a canter. The others looked back and also slowed.

The ride stretched for ages in Elfhild's mind. Each step seemed to shrink smaller than the last until they were crawling over the plain like beetles. Yet the canter continued.

At noon she forced herself to stop. Her heart railed at the delay, but she ignored it. The horses stood, breathing heavily. In a few minutes they began cropping grass. Elfhild handed bread to Wyn and Fréa, and they drank some water.

The girls watched their horses and tried to joke, but the tension weighed too heavily. They knew that it was less than two hours ride from here to their village. At least, it was less than two hours at the pace they had taken.

Elfhild watched the grass and tried to wait till her shadow passed a certain point. But her stomach tightened so much that she sprang up and strode to her horse. Wyn and Fréa followed.

Soon they were cantering again. The morning faded into afternoon and riding posessed their thoughts. The smoke cloud grew as they neared the village.

When they topped the next rise they slowed their horses. A column of smoke rose from the village. Every thatch had disappeared and many huts had collapsed. Everything was blackened with ash and fire.

The girls approached the village slowly, looking around for signs of the attackers. Elfhild looked at her own house. The beams had burned away and a whole side had collapsed. The other three sides leaned inward drunkenly. Erohin snorted at the smoke and grew fidgety. She smelled the danger.

Elfhild turned and rode toward the well. The sides had been broken down and rubble from the surrounding houses had been thrown into the shaft. Elfhild stared at the destruction. She was aware of Fréa and Wyn near her. Neither of them spoke. They knew.

"They must have attacked during the night," Elfhild said.

"Which means the women and children may have escaped!" Wyn whirled her horse and trotted to the edge of the village. "I can see their trail!" she cried.

Elfhild turned slowly. When she reached Wyn, she looked at the ground.

"The trail's clear, we won't have trouble following it," Wyn exclaimed.

"Too clear," Elfhild murmured.

"What do you mean?" Fréa asked.

"I don't want to know," Elfhild said. In her mind she saw bodies strewn over a field. Blood and the stench of dying flesh rose in her mind. The picture of her mother… "No!" she cried. Before she knew it she had dug her heals into Erohin's flanks and surged forward. She rode blindly, clinging to her mare, urging her faster and faster. Horse sweat spattered off Erohin's neck, and her hair tossed in her face, but Elfhild welcomed the distraction. Erohin's labored breathing and the cries of Wyn and Fréa brought her back to the present. She allowed Erohin to stop and looked over her shoulder. Wyn and Fréa had fallen far behind. When they saw she had stopped, they slowed their horses to a trot.

"We can't go on like this," Fréa gasped as they reached her. "The horses are too tired. If we meet danger we'll never outrun it."

The horses drooped their heads, their sides heaving.

"How far could they have traveled before nightfall?" Elfhild asked.

"Surely not more than four leagues, probably less than three," Fréa answered.

Elfhild looked down, "Surely not, they had children, and wounded."

"They have children and wounded," Wyn corrected. "They still have them." She insisted, glaring at Elfhild.

"Have, then" Elfhild granted. Her heart spoke no, but she fought against it. "They're alive, just hiding," she said fiercely, "we have to find them."

"Let's walk," Fréa said, "we may reach them before dark."

"Not if they kept traveling today," Elfhild said.

"No," Fréa admitted. She said nothing.

Elfhild kicked her horse. The mare took a deep breath and stepped forward. The three rode in silence.

The horses stopped panting and lifted their heads. They were resting for a sprint even as they walked. _A sprint to where?_ Elfhild wondered, _or from what? _Depression settled over her like a cloak, stifling her heart.

The sun stretched their shadows far across the plain as they topped another rise. They could smell smoke. An awful stench wafted along with it. Elfhild stopped her horse.

Fréa trembled.

"One may still be alive," Elfhild said and touched her horse's sides.

Wyn followed.

Nearer they could see what had happened. A few fires sent up wisps of smoke. They must have been last night's cooking fires. Bodies lay around the outer fires in sleeping positions. They had been surprised. The girls dismounted and walked toward the carnage. Revulsion and fear coursed through them. They looked at each face quickly. All were dead.

Wyn shrieked, and Fréa and Elfhild ran to her. They turned pale.

Goldhild lay sprawled on the ground with blood dried on her chest. Flies buzzed over her. Goldwyn curled near her feet. Dwyn and his brother sprawled on the ground not far away.

Elfhild stooped to feel her mother's neck. No life. Fréa and Wyn stood frozen. Elfhild didn't even touch Goldwyn. The damage was too obvious. Elfhild checked the two boys, then stood up. Fréa and Wyn read her look.

"Where can we bury them?" Wyn cried. "We can't let the wolves have them."

Elfhild felt the same panic rising within her.

"We can't" Fréa looked around, "we can't, we can't," she repeated.

"See if there are any alive," Elfhild said. She turned as if in a dream and began walking toward another body. She never remembered that evening clearly. It was as if a fog clung around the bodies. She just kept going from one to another. When it grew dark, she stopped. She noticed that Fréa and Wyn were still near Goldwyn.

They had sunk to the ground, still staring.

Something within Elfhild stirred. A strange hope for survival rose within her heart. She felt awake. Pain throbbed in her soul, yet she strode towards her two remaining friends.

"Come," she said. "Come back to the horses." They rose and followed her numbly. Each of them took her horse and walked away from the slaughter. They didn't have to explain; they just walked. Finally, Elfhild stopped.

The horse's saddles slipped to the ground with a thud, and the girls dragged them in a pile. They wrapped their cloaks around themselves and huddled close, desperate for companionship. No one thought about setting a watch. They assumed the sights they had just witnessed would keep them awake. But the hard riding and shock combined against them. Within a few hours, they were wrapped in slumber.


	6. Chapter VI The Errand Rider

VI The Errand Rider 

That night Déor again dreamed about his father. Those last words_, "The pouch…the pouch_," seemed so urgent. His father looked at him so reproachfully for not fulfilling the task. He woke sweating, but at least he had not cried out. His sweat cooled, and he slept again till morning.

At dawn he slipped to the rear of the fortress. The guard at the gate let him out, and he walked up the narrows. Guards greeted him as he passed. Soon he caught the smell of cattle and came upon several herds lying down or milling about. Boys stood watch over them.

Further on Déor reached the horses. Many of the horses lifted their heads to examine him, but he ignored them. At the far end of the picket line he stopped next to a cream white stallion. The horse nickered and stretched his head toward Déor.

"Hello, Felaróf," Déor said, brushing the horse's nose. The horse tossed his head. "I know, I ought to ride you more than just to the dike and back. We should be out on the plains now," Déor said. "We should be searching for that village."

The horse scraped the ground with his hoof.

Déor smiled. "No, you would not know why. It was my father's wish." He ducked under the picket rope and slid his hands along his horse. Felaróf twisted his head, still hoping for some treat.

"Déor!" a child's voice cried. He turned to see a boy running along the line of horses. "I thought it was you," the boy said halting suddenly and ducking his head. He scuffed the ground with his foot, looking at Déor from the corner of his eye.

"Where you on the cart yesterday?" Déor asked, thinking he recognized the cloak.

The boy nodded. He lifted his head and tossed his hair out of his eyes. "Your sword looks strange," he said, his hands clasped behind his back.

Déor laughed. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know, it just does."

"Do you make it a habit of commenting on the looks of swords?"

The boy ducked his head again. "My sister said she didn't think I was brave enough to tell you." He glanced back toward the caves.

"The sword looks strange because it comes from Dol Amroth," Déor explained.

The boy cocked his head. "Dol Amroth?"

Déor nodded. "A place south of Gondor," he said.

"Is this your horse?" the boy asked, motioning toward the stallion.

"Yes, his name is Felaróf."

"Oh, after the horse Eorl the young tamed."

"You know that story well."

"Of course!" the boy exclaimed. "Leod, Eorl's father, tried to tame the colt, but it carried him off and he fell and struck his head against a rock. So Eorl chased the horse, to demand weregild for his father's death. Eorl found him, and the horse submitted. He named him Felaróf and ever after only the kings of Rohan have been able to ride his descendants," the boy rattled off. "Every boy knows that."

Déor smiled.

The boy whirled, "My mother is calling," he cried, darting off like a spooked colt.

Déor laid his arm over Felaróf's neck and watched him go. The stallion tossed his head again. "Calm down my lad, my warrior," Deor laughed. "We must ride the plains soon," he said, "as Eorl the young once did."

"Déor!" This time it was Sigebryht. He jogged down the picket line, scanning the horses for sight of his friend.

"Yes?" Déor asked.

Sigebryht twisted toward him. "There you are! Do you know you have missed breakfast?"

"What?" Déor jumped into the path.

Sigebryht started laughing. "No, no," he gasped, "you have only almost missed breakfast."

Déor glared at him. The two raced back to the tower and collapsed on their benches, panting.

"Any news of this Folcwine?" one of the men asked. Déor shook his head. There was a low murmur around the table.

"Keep asking," a man grunted. "You'll find him eventually."

The watch weighed more heavily on Déor that day. Gamling was busy at noon and could not sword fight with Déor. Sigebryht tried to practice with him, but Déor seemed uninterested. Sigebryht suggested riding Felaróf between the dike and the fortress, but that would mean bringing the stallion through the tower and out the front gate. The guards would not relish the idea unless he went on an errand for the commander.

Déor walked back to his stallion and brushed his coat till it sparkled brighter than the glittering caves in torchlight. Then he caught up the saddle and bridle and oiled them to the same glistening state.

"Are you getting ready for a ride?" Sigebryht asked, walking up to him with a big grin on his face.

"No," Déor said.

"Well you should be."

"Why?"

"Gamling just told me to come get you. I think he needs a messenger."

"But the messenger came just a few days ago," Déor said.

Sigebryht shrugged. "He may need another one."

"Sigebryht, did you have anything to do with this?" Déor asked. "I don't want to get a favor someone else could have had."

"Me, ask for favors?" Sigebryht sounded shocked.

"For a friend, yes," Déor said.

"Well, so would you," Sigebryht grinned. "But this time I didn't ask. Gamling called me and told me to find you."

Déor smiled. "Of course," he said.

"I'm telling the truth," Sigebryht insisted.

"I know, I am only teasing you," Déor said.

Déor found Gamling near the back entrance to the tower, talking to one of the guards.

"Déor," Gamling turned, "I have a job for you." Just a Sigebryht had guessed, Gamling wanted him to ride to Erkenbrand and return with news. "Ride there today and return tomorrow."

Déor saluted and hurried back to his stallion. Already his heart soared at the thought of racing over the plain.

Felaróf fairly pranced as Déor saddled him. Déor had not really exercised him for several days. He would be a handful, and Déor rejoiced. He held the lead rope right next to the stallion's bridle as he led him past the other horses. A horse snorted, and Felaróf skittered toward it. Déor clung to the bridle and dragged the beast around. "No," he said sternly.

They passed down the valley and approached the tower. Guards already held the gate open for them, and they walked through. Felaróf's hooves rang on the stones as they wound their way around the outer courtyard. Before the main gate Déor mounted and waited as the men lowered the bars and pushed the gates open.

He allowed Felaróf to walk through the gate slowly. The stallion swung his head around as he stepped onto the causeway, but Déor pulled him straight. Felaróf hunched his back and crow-hopped a few steps before stretching out into a canter. Déor urged the stallion forward, stretching low over his neck. Together they streaked down the road. The dike rose up like a mountain, then passed in a blur. The guards hailed him, and he lifted his hand in answer. Several bowshots from the dike, he hauled on the reins. Felaróf obeyed, but he shook his head and snorted, eyeing the horizon. Déor lifted his hand to the guards, then he brought it down with a shout.

Felaróf sprang forward, flying over the land with his great strides. Déor's golden hair streamed behind him in the wind of their travel. A chance observer would have thought Eorl the young had come again.

Déor poured himself into his horse, feeling every movement, feeling the freedom, the activity. He smiled.

As their shadow lengthened into darkness, Déor neared the Fords. A horn sounded and a man's voice shouted at him to stop. Deor pulled up near the outpost, his white horse gleaming in the twilight. The guard asked his business then let him pass.

Déor rode slowly into camp. On every side men were fully armed. About half were lying down in their armor, while the others stood ready. He heard a horse snort and glanced over to where a group of horses stood picketed. A young man stood near one, soothing it. The horse snorted again and tossed his head as the man grasped the its foot.

Déor rode on to the standard raised in the middle of the camp. There he found Erkenbrand talking with several of his captains. Erkenbrand was a tall man with a large black horn hanging from his belt. His red shield glowed strangely in the firelight.

The men looked up as Déor dismounted.

"What news?" Erkenbrand asked, rising.

"The peasants continue to come to Helm's Deep," Déor said. "They bring many provisions, and all their animals."

Erkenbrand nodded. "Good," he said. "We stand in readiness. Every day we expect an attack." He paused, straining his eyes toward the west, across the Isen. Déor could hear the flowing water beyond the sounds of the camp. "Rest here tonight and return tomorrow," Erkenbrand said. "It is not wise for men to leave the circle after dark."

Déor ducked his head for answer. He turned and led Felaróf back the way he had come. He still held the reins near the stallion's head. Felaróf had run all day, yet Déor had learned long ago never to expect him to behave even when he was tired.

He stopped where he had seen the man treating his horse. He could still hear the man talking, though his eyes were blinded from the torches near Erkenbrand. Déor stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust.

The young man was kneeling near the horse, cradling a hoof in his lap as he massaged the leg.

"Den?' a man asked, coming toward him. "How is she?"

"Her leg still pains her. But the swelling has gone down."

"You shouldn't have jumped her over that bush," the man sighed.

"Helm," Den replied, his teeth clamped together, "you jumped your own horse over that bush."

Helm sat back on his heels, thinking. Then he reached forward to feel the mare's leg. "It does feel better," he said.

Den nodded.

Déor watched them quietly. Suddenly Felaróf threw up his head and whirled. Déor clenched his hand on the end of the reins. The whirl jerked him around, but he kept his balance. "Felaróf!" he exclaimed, grabbing the stallion's head and pulling him straight.

The men looked up. "You're the messenger who came from Helm's Deep," Helm said.

"Yes," Déor anwered. "Could you show me where to picket my horse?"

"Certainly," Helm said, rising. "Have the people from our village come to Helm's Deep yet?" he asked.

"Where is your village?" Déor asked.

"To the north, about twenty leagues," Helm replied.

"Do you know of a man named Folcwine, son of Elfwine?" Déor asked.

"Yes," Helm looked at him strangely.

"Is someone asking for me?" a voice sounded from the other side of Felaróf.

Déor swung around, surprised his stallion had given no sign of the stranger. "You are Folcwine, son of Elfwine?" he asked.

"Yes," the man nodded.

"Your two daughters," Déor lowered his voice, "Prince Imrahil's daughters, where are they?"

Folcwine looked surprised, "I have four daughters," he said.

Déor stared at him. "I am Déor, son of Anglen. My mother was a lady from Dol Amroth," he said.

Folcwine looked unconvinced. "I don't know about the doings of Dol Amroth," he said.

"I'm sorry," Déor said, "perhaps I ask the wrong person."

"Maybe you wish to know about my horse herd?" Folcwine asked. "I have one of the largest in the land of Rohan. But I see you have a fine horse already," he motioned toward Felaróf.

"No," Déor smiled, "I need no horses."

Folcwine nodded. He was silent, as if waiting. "I can see you are weary," he said finally. "Come picket your horse near mine. You can sleep near our fire."

Déor followed him silently. _"Could there be more than one Folcwine?" _he wondered. The man's actions confused him. He picketed Felaróf where Folcwine showed him, checking the stake several times. Then he lay down near the fire and slept.the fire.


End file.
